


Absurd Inclinations

by catherineisa



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: 3/12/20 completed, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineisa/pseuds/catherineisa
Summary: Donald Ressler has a friend in a high place (even if he refuses to admit it)
Relationships: Aram Mojtabai/Samar Navabi, Raymond Reddington & Donald Ressler, Raymond Reddington/Donald Ressler
Comments: 14
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> https://open.spotify.com/user/catherineisablank/playlist/2ADFanUa0rOy3aKtmtkTCF

“Believe it or not, I’ll always watch your back Donald.”

The Criminal took his hat off and set it carefully on the table. Ressler’s ribs are on fire but before he can even open the pill bottle it’s snatched from his hands and put in place of it is a bottle of water.

“You need to stay hydrated.”

Anger flares up in him and he wants to punch the man, but he can barely move. “I’m sure I can restrain myself.”

Reddington’s eyebrow flies upward at that. “Donald, you’ve shown in the past that when it comes to this.” He stops to gesture with the pill bottle, rattling its contents lightly. “You have no restraint.”

Of course a man like Raymond Reddington would see right through him. His chest burns with more than pain and anger as he realizes that he’s right. It's a deep shame. He should have known. he thinks about something Reddington said once about opium dens and realizes it’s not the advice of a conscientious objector but the words of an addict.

He looks toward the wall of their shared office. Trying his damnedest not to meet the man’s eyes. He’d always hated the evasion, half-truths that got them down a rabbit hole they couldn’t even see, trying to paw their way out of a problem they knew nothing about. Somehow though the brutal honesty of the situation is terrifying.

Part of him wishes that Reddington would go back to the harsh uncaring tones he’d used previously. The other part though, the traitorous one, likes that someone is paying attention. In a sea of blacked out incident reports he’s still there. As shitty as he feels, he relishes being seen. Even if it’s a man like Raymond Reddington.

He buries the thought, but the damage is done. He begins to think about Liz’s newfound detachment, the single-minded drive and shudders, he doesn’t seem to recognize her anymore.

He pulls himself out of his thoughts only to realize that the man is gone and oddly he’s left his hat. He pulls the hat up by it’s brim and a green sticky note falls out. He glances over at Liz’s desk organizer to confirm that the paper is stolen.

‘ _Another crime to add to the pile._ ’ He finds himself joking lightly to himself.

The handwriting is neat but looks rushed, the sloping blockish letters are familiar to him as during his time on The Reddington Task-Force, the words he’d overanalyzed for riddles, brought in Psychoanalysts to decode the handwriting behind the man. (The science which he still doesn’t take much stock in.) Seeing it now though makes him reevaluate the decisions he made to get here.

The note itself makes him roll his eyes. He doesn’t quite have the energy to be annoyed or angry anymore.

“Maybe it’ll suit you. If not, I want it returned. Stay hydrated. Don’t do drugs. What is that old epithet? “Crack is wack” How ironic.”

He knows he’s never going to wear the hat and pretty quickly he realizes that Reddington definitely must know that too. He furrows his brow trying to figure out what the motive would be. Suddenly he thinks that maybe he doesn’t have one but it’s too sinister, he can’t quite let go of the image of abominable evil that he’s tacked to Raymond Reddington.

He crumples the note and tosses it in the trash before gingerly picking up the hat again. He steps out into the war room, hat in hand. Aram gives him a strange look.

“I saw you talking to Mr. Reddington but what’s with that?” He gestures toward the hat with his pen as Ressler sets it on his desk, his tone is quiet, like he’s trying to keep attention off of him, but it just serves to make people more curious. Ressler doesn’t quite know what to say. How do you explain something you don’t fully understand yourself?

He figures the best ambiguous answer is the truth. He shrugs but suddenly that’s not the best decision. Suddenly his chest is on fire and his ribs feel like they’re being torn slowly apart. He must sit down. Aram’s face flashes concern, which he tries and fails to hide. He drops his pen and it misses the desk and clangs to the floor, but he doesn’t even spare a glance. Ressler quickly tries to wave him off but that makes it even worse and he wants to vomit.

“Don’t you have something for the pain?” Ressler winces and this time it has nothing to do with the injury. His concerned eyes blink from workstation to workstation hoping no one has picked up on the little moment. Either they haven’t or they’re great at pretending, no one has looked up from their task. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s frozen, even just momentarily. “I can’t take it. I don’t like what it does to me.” A technical truth. Or maybe a half-truth either way Aram misses (or ignores) the possible implications of the statement.

“Oh, it make you groggy? Or hyper maybe?” He spares him a sympathetic glance.

“Mr. Cooper would probably let you take some time off. you know? Since you were attacked.”

“Most likely” Ressler pulls himself up carefully trying to avoid pressure. He decides he is going to request time off. He’s not surprised, Aram is usually right about those kinds of things, the matters of the heart.

He pulls himself slowly up the stairs leaning heavily on the rail. He decides during the slow ascent that he’s going to request time off. Not just the day though, the week. He knocks lightly on the slightly cracked door. “Come in.” Harold Cooper takes off his glasses and sets them aside before looking to Ressler. “I read the report. I was also informed of the incident by Agent Mojtabai.” He rubs the bridge of his nose where the glasses have been resting. “Knocked you good. Didn’t he?” Ressler forces an awkward nod, shame bristling his skin. The report neglects to mention the medical care he’d already received from Reddington’s team.

If I’d just done my job right. Now the Blacklister is dead and precious information is lost.

“That’s actually why I’m here.”

Cooper gives a small nod. “I was going to request time.” Before he can go on Cooper interrupts him. “Granted.” He turns to leave, and Cooper starts to talk, stopping him in his tracks. “How are you agent Ressler? With all of this?”

“A couple knocked ribs, nothing new.” Cooper shakes his head. “No. Not just the ribs or even the nearly punctured lung and you know it. Everything. Audrey. Reddington.” He gestures vaguely toward the agent and Ressler feels nauseas. Ressler can’t even face his feelings toward everything. He definitely couldn’t tell Cooper about what happened after Audrey, with Tanida. “Honestly sir, I’m not quite sure how to feel.” It’s close to the truth. He’s not going to admit that he doesn’t consider shooting Reddington as an unconscious thought anymore. (Although sometimes when he opens his mouth the thought resurfaces.)

 _The man he’s been conditioned by the government to hate. The man I hunted without remorse for years. Was the man to save my life and drag my ass to safety_.

He bites his tongue. He doesn’t say it and Cooper opens his files again. Ressler takes it as his cue to leave.

In a moment of clarity, or possibly idiocy. He slips the hat off the desk. He flips it over his wrist before catching it lightly. He doesn’t put it on, not his style.

He gets home pretty quickly only to sit in his car for nearly half an hour. Head on the steering.

_This would’ve been so much easier if you’d’ve taken the shot in Brussels._

The thought appalls him, and he wonders briefly if he could speak with his past self what he would say.

_“You could have done it, been over with it. Why didn’t you?”_

_“I don’t know but it’s too late now. I owe the man my life, I can’t have his blood on my hands.”_

_“Why not. If he dies no one knows. You’d be free of him; you’d no longer owe him your soul.”_

_“I’d know. I can’t have his blood on my hands.”_

He imagines the Ressler of the past would scoff at him. His moment of weakness.

He finally decides to go inside, the cold hums lightly on the skin of his arms but he can’t bring himself to put on his coat. He needs the distraction.

He sets the hat lightly on the island and makes his way to the bedroom before heading to the bedroom. He deftly unbuttons his shirt with one hand and careful not to ruffle anything he takes it off. Throwing it haphazardly into the corner. Despite all the extra care his ribs crackle in protest. The thought that it could’ve been worse is foremost and somehow quite calming.

The skin where the bullets had hit over the vest was a garish purple and red with splotches of green and yellow. He shudders violently as the memory flashes through his mind.

_The feeling of the bullets hitting the vest_

_The feeling of Reddington dragging him through the back column of a warehouse._

_The deep familiar voice of the criminal telling him to keep his eyes open and telling Dembe to “Prep an emergency, URGENT code 77”_

_He feels Reddington slap his face softly and he nearly growls. “You’re bleeding internally. Stay awake Donald.”_

_This is around when they get him to the medical team._

_“What’s the status?” An unfamiliar voice._

_“Internal bleeding. High velocity bullets hit the vest and his breathing is ragged.” Familiar. Smooth._

_He blacks out and wakes up with an IV in his arm. He reaches to yank it out and a forceful hand reaches out to grab his hand. “No Donald. You need this. Intravenous vitamin K, fresh frozen plasma, blood, and platelets. For the bleeding.” He lies back. Somehow he knows he might be alright in his care. He doesn’t know how but he has the distinct feeling._

Suddenly it’s too much and he can’t bear his own reflection. He turns the mirror around and sit on the edge of his bed. He throws a simple white button up on from the drawer across from him. Not bothering with buttoning it, he sits lightly on the edge of the bed. He breathes heavily, a ragged sound escapes him and he feels like he’s breaking. He takes his five year old Sony Dream Machine from the nightstand and turns it over in his hands, carefully so as not to rip the plug out of the wall. Pressing down hard on the battery compartment turns it loose and six pills fall out into his hand.

**Three Vicodin. Three Oxycontin.**

He takes a deep breath and heads for his kitchen pills in hand. Setting them neatly on the counter all lined up in a row he gets a tall glass of water. He feels as if the world is sinking, and maybe it is. The pain is making his head spin and he wants to collapse. The exhaustion needles at him and he sighs.

The hat feels like a taunt as he picks up the first pill. He sets it back on the table.

“Why can’t I just forget it?” The words meet empty air and he shakes his head miserably.

He picks the hat up. Contemplates just trashing it. He can’t bring himself to actually do it though. He feels along the brim careful not to bend it. The felt feels soft under his thumb and he can’t help but appreciate it. He turns it over slowly and grazes the bow with his thumb. The accented detail of the gold trim of the word Borsalino is the only highlight to an otherwise black hat. A flash of color.

In another moment of impulse, he slides all of the pills into his left hand and plods to the bathroom, lifting the toilet lid, he lowers the pills down and opens his fingers, dumping them in.

Before he can even regret his actions, He’s flushed them.

Waking up the next morning is hard. Especially when he knows he doesn’t need to go to work. The bruises on his ribs ache and he wants nothing more than to be able to breathe with the feeling of stones in his lungs. He almost starts to roll over when he hears a crackling from his kitchen. The unmistakable sound of eggs in a pan set him on high alert. He pulls his sidearm out of his nightstand and clicks the safety off. In the relative quiet of the house it’s louder than he’d like.

“Absolutely no need for that Donald. I assure you.” His voice is jovial. He wonders briefly when Reddington started calling him Donald. From the beginning I suppose. 

The safety is clicked back into place and the gun is returned to the drawer. The other man is indeed cooking and to his credit it smells great. He hesitates to admit it out loud though. Reddington’s back is turned and he can see the suit jacket and overcoat folded neatly and draped over a nearby chair. He chuckles lightly despite the man having broken into his house. He expects nothing less from “The Concierge Of Crime.”

“Hmm. My apologies for breaking into your house.” Ressler rolls his eyes. “Harold said you requested medical leave. I must admit I assumed the worst.” Ressler pulls out a chair and takes mental note that the hat has found it’s way to the opposite side of the table and been joined by another similar hat. This time trimmed in navy. He fails to hold his tongue and blurts out. “What? You thought I’d scratch whatever itch I may have? Maybe I’d go further and tie off. Why the hell would you care?”

The concierge flinches slightly and resumes what cooking he may be doing. He huffs but can’t find the old anger. Reddington has turned off the stove and turned around with a delicately plated meal.

He hasn’t answered the question. Donald gets the distinct feeling he’ll never get an answer, or at least not a straightforward one. Whatever might come out of his mouth would probably be a complicated mess.

_Maybe a justified one though. He always has a reason._

He fumbles to change the subject as the plate is set down in front of him.

“How much did it cost?” Reddington titters lightly at the roundabout.

“Croque Madame. You had most of the ingredients, so I’d say $6.50”

Donald laughs loudly and Reddington looks at him strangely. “No. The hat.”

He smells the plate briefly as it wafts up towards him and as an old habit wonders if Reddington would dare poison him.

“Oh the Folar? Five hundred and five.” He doesn’t even blink and Ressler nearly chokes.

 _Should’ve expected it to be lavish. Five hundred dollars is probably pocket change for the older man._ He observes that maybe crime does pay.

His focus shifts to the food and he tries to remember the name of the dish. The man must read his mind.

A ghastly thought.

“Croque Madame. I’d figured I’d make something memorable.”

The vague statement causes Donald to freeze and drop the fork. He glances warily at the man.

“So you did poison it?” Reddington’s booming laugh permeates the room, eyes crinkling lightly at the sides.

“Oh heavens no. If I wanted you dead I would’ve let you take those pills and waste yourself.”

The matter-of-fact honesty and word choice is almost too much for him and he misses the riddles and clues.

“No. This is what I was eating when you tried to kill me in Brussels.”

Ressler can’t place the tone but part of him wishes he’d brought the gun to the table. Reddington finishes plating the second meal, he puts it on the table but doesn’t sit down. After a moment of shuffling Ressler realizes that the other man is cleaning up. Lack of anything tangible to say he blurts “Getting cold.” Reddington gives him an odd look as he wipes his hands on a nearby dish towel.

“Your food.” He doesn’t miss the airy smile that graces his face.

“I had no idea you cared for my comfort, Donald.”

He scoffs. “I don’t.” He takes his fork and slices the edge off the egg and the sandwich. The Sandwich is crispy and the mix of ham and cheese and whatever the sauce is is phenomenal. He realizes that the fork might not be the right way to eat it and looks up like a deer in headlights. He calms slightly when Reddington himself gets up and grabs a fork from the drawer. He takes up the fork and slices his egg, letting it run into the bread. Mouth around the food he asks “So you know your way around my kitchen now.” Another bite. He almost has to bite back an appreciative noise (That Reddington would definitely misconstrue.)

“Rude to talk with your mouth full.”

The crispy bread paired with the thick sauce and the runny yoke makes him try to remember if he’d ever truly sat down for a real home-cooked meal since before high school. To the best of his memory he hasn’t, not since his father was murdered.

Reddington chips in cheerily, after finishing his mouthful, of course.

“I also met Mrs. Hagermeyer down the hall, lovely woman. You know she was a nurse in Vietnam?” He shakes his head and Reddington keeps talking. “How she met her second husband. Rest his soul.” Ressler tears part of the sandwich off and soaks it in the yoke on the plate.

“Please don’t speak with my neighbors. Don’t sleep with any of them either.” He chuckles heartily at that. “No, no, no Christine would slap me if I even flirted, I insinuated I was sleeping with you. Well dating to be exact. Well she assumed and I ran with it.”

Ressler gapes at him. “Oh, don’t be like that. We’re taking it slow but that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun.” Ressler’s voice raises. “But we’re not.” Now Ressler really wishes he brought his gun to the table.

“I know. It doesn’t matter anyway.” Ressler wonders what that’s supposed to mean but drops it finishing his breakfast.

Eventually Reddington leaves and of course Mrs. Hagermeyer is taking out her trash. “Oh darling. Was it good?” Ressler hums questioningly, looking startled and Reddington laughs his best innocent man laugh. “The food chucklehead.” Ressler laughs with relief and avoids his eyes but he can’t help but tell the truth. “Yeah. It was incredible.” The admission makes Red smile broadly. He can feel Mrs. Hagermeyer staring at them.

What did he call her? Christine. How does Reddington know my neighbors better than I do.

 _The answer hits him immediately._ **It’s good business.**

“You should let me cook for you more often dearest.” Ressler shakes his head trying desperately to go along with the ruse.

“Says who? Darling you need to let someone take care of you.” Reddington voice a lilt. Ressler wants to choke though (or choke him.)

“Whatever. Sure next time you can make something else simple really complicated.” He rolls his eyes and before he can think Reddington laughs boisterously, eyes crinkling. Suddenly loud. “And it will be delicious.” His hands cup his face and he leans in softly kissing his lips. “I will see you later.” Reddington obviously wants to get a rise out of him but instead he plays along. He gestures lamely toward Christine, who’s still standing there. (for some reason-the obvious one he knows)

“Neighbor!”

It only serves to make him laugh more. It frustrates Ressler.

_What is his motive?_

_**What if he doesn’t have one this time…..**_

He puts on his hat but there’s no sign of the other one in his hand. Reddington seems to notice his glances and simply says “I’ll be back for it later.”


	2. Chapter 2

Donald quickly realizes that downtime is not his friend as he finishes his daily tasks. Without distractions ~~read work~~ The only thing he can seem to focus on is the pain. He wants to slap himself when he realizes he regrets flushing the pills.

_It’s not like they’d’ve known._

_They would’ve known somehow, especially Reddington._

He tries desperately to distract himself. He circles around his house several times looking for something to clean but his normal tidiness has made it impossible. He looks into the fridge to see that Reddington has reorganized it.

_Of course he did._

Donald notices something else odd though about his usually unorganized fridge. There’s lunch bag sitting towards the middle of the fridge that he’s very sure isn’t his. He doesn’t even need to open it to know that Reddington’s made him lunch.

It’s packed in one of those stupid zip plastic cooler bags, no doubt Dembe bought for some kind of trip. He laughs quietly at the thought of the Concierge of Crime eating a PB&J out of the striped bag.

He’s curious as to what it would be but at the same time figures it should be a surprise.

He remembers something Reddington once said.

_“Donald, where’s your sense of adventure? Surprises are part of life. If you don’t embrace them, you end up a victim of circumstance rather than flourishing.”_

He knows that it’s not quite the same, but he figures it starts with the small things.

He turns off the lights before heading out the door, hat and cooler in hand.

He goes into work with the hat and bag still in his hands and of course he gets strange looks.

_Can’t ever seem to mind their own damn business, can they?_

He passes the security checks to get to the inner circle and at least three of the guards glance warily at the hat as they check his weapons.

_No, they can’t._

He fights the urge to tell them to ‘bite it’ finally passing the checks he makes his way to the war room. He finds himself standing in front of Aram who looks surprised to see him but also very pleased. “I thought you had medical leave. Cooper told us.” He furrows his brow.

“Couldn’t stand the silence. Didn’t agree with me.” Aram tries to be subtle when he glances at the hat, but curiosity is written all over his face. Donald catches his glance and his face flashes guilt. Never very good at lying or hiding anything.

_Even after twelve years at the NSA. Curious._

“You still have it?” Ressler shrugs partially not disturbing his ribs too much. “Figured he’d kill me if anything happened to it.

_Not true. He somehow believes Reddington’s assurance that he won’t kill him._

Aram flinches heavily. “You really think he’d kill any of us?”

Ressler turns away without saying a word. “Do you?”

He heads to the break room to avoid the line of inquiry. Would he? He ignores all of the possible answers as he shoves the bag in the fridge.

_No. He wouldn’t. Not without reason at least._

It doesn’t take long for Reddington to come in with another name. Donald hears him before he sees him. He can imagine Reddington coming out of the elevator and everyone glancing at him before returning to work. That’s how it usually goes anyways.

“The next name on the blacklist is Nikolai Sheridan, a nasty piece of work. He’s an art thief with no concept of flair.”

Reddington turns toward the agents as Aram puts the background on the screen.

“Nikolai Sheridan. An MI6 agent went missing in ’06 presumed dead.”

“hmm presumed is exactly right. The man is hard to track if you don’t know his habits.”

Samar looks from the screen to Reddington. “And you do? Of course you do.” Reddington chuckles gaily and unwraps a powder blue scarf from his neck setting it down on the hat next to Aram. Aram eyes him warily giving him a wide breadth.

“He nearly destroyed “Saturn Devours His Son””

“Nearly?” Now Ressler’s curiosity is too much and he can’t stay quiet any longer. He heads down the stairs.

Reddington hums curiously as he regards him.

“They’d told me you were taking time.” Ressler raises his eyebrow. “They?”

Reddington expertly dodges the assertion.

_He cares._

_No. He doesn’t. He cares for his freedom._

“Yes well, Sources.” Ressler’s brow arches.

There’s tension in the air and Aram and Samar share a look.

_They’re always on the same page of a book I can’t reach._

“He set a charge in the room where the painting was being restored and nearly lit the fluids on fire. Which could have destroyed the painting, as well as many more.”

Elizabeth suddenly pipes up. “That painting is disgusting. Maybe it should have been destroyed.” She sounds angry but it doesn’t seem to be about the painting at all.

Reddington clicks his tongue at her with annoyance. “Really Elizabeth?” Those two words and everyone within earshot can tell he’s now mad at her too. He turns away from her and drapes the scarf over his shoulders and puts the hat on his head. “Would you really have a painting as old as 1823 destroyed? You wouldn’t lose sleep?” He shakes his head with derision.

“Nikolai Sheridan has a proclivity for a certain type.” Reddington looks directly in his eyes and Ressler can’t help but shiver lightly. Gooseflesh runs down his arms and suddenly he’s glad he’s wearing long sleeves.

“There’s party at ‘Il Dimora Di Dissolutezza’ I’ll secure passage for me and the venerable agent.” Suddenly Samar and Aram, hell even Ressler glances towards Liz expectantly. As if he has eyes on the back of his head though he shoots out. “Not her.”

Ressler can’t help the deep laugh that escapes him. This causes Liz to glare at him.

_If looks could kill._

After Reddington leaves there’s no reason to stay out in the war room and he returns to his office. Paperwork awaits. After several hours of infuriating paper pushing of drafting incident reports for no one to read he begins to feel hungry. He glances at the clock. 12:53 He figures it’s as good a time as any to eat lunch. He paws out the change for the machine and then shoves it in his pocket as he remembers whatever might be in the bag.

_If it’s half as good as breakfast, then it’s worth a try._

He makes his way to their designated break room. It was probably the break room when it was a mail building too, seeing as there is a sink and a fridge he doesn’t remember ever not being there. Elizabeth and Aram are already there eating. As soon as she sees him she wraps up and leaves. He tries to stop her and apologize but she wrenches free from him and leaves.

_No wonder they called her a bitch at the academy_

“Eh, she’ll drop it eventually. She’s not that petty.” He furrows his brow. “I don’t think.”

Ressler nods slightly and heads for the fridge, not really caring one way of the other. He notes that the magnets have been pushed aside and the letters have been rearranged to spell out various vulgarities. He chuckles to himself and opens the fridge. Luckily no one has eaten his lunch and he pulls it out satisfactory.

_It really is the small things huh?_

He pulls the glassware out of the bag, his own thankfully. An index card falls out and he fumbles to grab it before it hits the ground. The delicate message mixed with the message is enough to make him roll his eyes.

Basil-Lemon Chicken Linguine. Made this before you woke up. Writing this as you sit at the table. That look on your face is very familiar, It’s definitely an O-face.

-Raymond Reddington

(You might know me from such hits as my #1 on the most wanted list)

XOXOXO

Aram tries to sneak a look at the card and he shoves it in his pocket.

“Learning to cook or is it a special someone?” The curiosity is palpable in his voice.

Ressler doesn’t quite know what to say. The truth perhaps.

_~~Too complicated.~~ _ _Maybe._

“Someone made it for me. Yes.” Aram practically glows. “Dish! Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Enby-Friend?”

_People still say dish? That aren’t high school girls?_

“No. None of that. He’s just yanking my chain.”

They eat in silence for a bit before Aram quietly interjects. “So it’s a dude?”

Ressler shoves the last of the pasta in his mouth before putting the dish in the sink.

_Even better than breakfast._

Dembe and Reddington return later on in the day and Reddington beelines for the assistant directors’ office. He pulls the folded plastic bag out of his pocket and offers it to the man. “I believe this is yours?”

Dembe’s eyebrows raise slightly and he takes the bag before smiling slightly. “Ahh. Yes. it is.” He chuckles softly. Ressler is confused as to what could be amusing. “You are Raymond’s Innamorare.”

The man’s accented voice almost floats over the word and before he can ask what it means Reddington is back in view. Reddington calls out from above. “Gather, all!” He laughs heartily. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

He plods lightly down the stairs in his no doubt expensive shoes.

_Probably doesn’t want to trip over “Clumsy agents”_

“I’ve secured two spots for entrance for me and my liaison.” He gestures towards Ressler. “Mr. Reisler.” He chuckles at that and Ressler flares up. “What? Are you trying to have me killed? Your idea of a joke.” He nearly growls at Reddington who makes a pithy movement with his mouth.

“No Donald. Would you like me to change the name?” Donald recoils at the sudden sincerity in his voice. Aram and Samar share another strange look, but it goes unnoticed by Ressler who hadn’t expect him to budge. Not so easily at least. Before he can even say anything Reddington is on the phone.

“Hello. Nikolai? I’d hate to intrude so close to when we last spoke, and so late! I really do. I know that this is last minute and again I apologize but my plus one. My liaison has dropped out. He wouldn’t tell me, and it’s not good business to brownnose.” The corner of his mouth goes down slightly as if he cares about the inconvenience. “He did say something about a wrong name, perhaps it’s a mistaken identity situation. He assures me it’s all being handled, for now I trust him or I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.”

The whole thing reminds him of a conversation he had with his father when he was younger.

_Every lie is a seed of the truth. The best liars are always the people that understand others feelings and can manipulate them._

He doesn’t think too much about whether it makes much sense but he doesn’t want to stop and find out it doesn’t. He also can shake it though. “The name on the slot? Donald Damereu.”

He doesn’t quite realize that the phone call is over until Reddington snaps the phone in half and tosses it in the trash. He’s quickly ushered into the elevator. “Come on Donald. We need to have you looking like you are actually one of my charges.

Donald rolls his eyes and quickly looks around. “Dembe will not be joining us. He has business with Elizabeth.” His voice hardens and his face betrays annoyance. Donald knows better than to ask.

_I’ll find out eventually_

Of course, there’s a car in front of the post office that’s probably more expensive than his house. He’s surprised though when Reddington gets behind the wheel and cranks the engine. “Are you going to get in Donald? Or just stare?” He opens the door and slides into the car. It smells of leather and cologne, no doubt not Reddington’s, too heavy he breathes it in and Reddington explains. Only partially of course in true fashion. “A colleague of mine. He treasures that image of decadence too heavily. A man that can’t separate money from the finer things in life.” The statement confuses him and Reddington continues. “Not everything is money. Oh, did I ever tell you about the time that I was stranded in the Indonesia.” He chuckles and shakes his head inwardly. “I was stranded on a ship with a man who didn’t understand any English and of course then I didn’t know any Indonesian. I was on a boat that was capsizing and trying to save my own ass. Dembe is no where in sight and I’m trying to decide whether it’s beneficiary to just swim to shore but of course I simply must help this man, best cook on the island makes a mean, Nasi Padang. Years later I find myself on the Archipelago and I run into him, but this time he speaks a bit of English and I speak a bit of Indonesian, and now he’s in my employ.”

The continuation doesn’t do anything to clear up the point of the story. Ressler squints at him. “Is there a purpose to that story?”

“Every action has its own set of consequences, whether bad or good. And not everything relies on money.”

Donald nods.

It doesn’t take long for the drive to be over; they end up in a lesser populated area downtown.

The store is a swanky kind of refurbished brownstone. There are headless mannequins and he almost cracks wise about surveillance.

“We’ve arrived Donald.’ Donald just hums. There’s something about the storefront that sets him on edge.

_It’s the fact that this is how every ambush starts out. Quiet._

_Maybe the fact that it’s also probably a money laundering site._

Upon entering the building Reddington is pulled into a tight hug. The tailor is a taller man, (taller than Reddington and himself at least) with greying temples, seemingly mid-forties.

“Agostino, Donald. Donald, Agostino.” Ressler goes to open his mouth and he’s stopped by Reddington, who has two fingers held up. “Not a lick of English. Only Italian.” He addresses the other man directly now.

“Mi non farlo pensare mio amico sapere vostro lingua.”

“I don’t think my friend knows your language.”

“Esso essare accettabile.”

“It is passable.”

Reddington raises his eyebrow at him before breaking out with a smile. “You never cease to surprise me, Donald.” He shakes his head in amusement. “College.”

He fights the urge to beam at the praise.

_You shouldn’t take pride or fault in the words of a criminal._

“Come stai amico?” He’s returned his attention to Agostino, the tailor.

“How are you, friend?”

“Non peggio del solito” Agostino shrugs.

“No worse than usual.”

“Buono a sapersi.” A nod from Reddington.

“Good to hear”

“Siamo qui per una adattamento.”

“We are here for a fitting.”

“Scratch o indietro ordinato raccogliere.”

“Scratch or back ordered pick up.

“Misurare e adattare diritto qui oggo.”

“Measured and fit right here today”

“Si realizzare tutto quello vuoi coinvolgere Raymond?”

You realize all that would involve Raymond? 

“Lo faro’ pagare si doppio tasso, sei mila dollaro”

I’ll pay you double rate. Six Thousand Dollars

“Mi sara mio programma”

I will clear my schedule

“Da domani note” Agostino throws his arms up in frustration.

By tomorrow night 

“Non per me neanche. Per mio associare”

Not for me either. For my associate here.

Agostino rolls his eyes and crows inwardly before putting him up on a pedestal and shooing Reddington away.

Reddington perches on a couch that lines the wall and grabs a magazine from a tray hidden under it.

_No doubt it’s a Vogue or GQ or something else that’s basically an advertisement through and through._

As he stands there awkwardly being measured, he takes in the room. They’d always taught him to be observant at the academy and in his training. The ceilings are higher than reach probably even with a ladder and the ceilings are blue tinted glass. It seems like a warehouse that had been transformed into a hospitable business, in actuality it probably was.

The racks of clothes are hanging from the wall on a number of rolling straight racks that display the suits in the light. His eyes jump from suit to suit quickly before he returns his gaze to Reddington and then flickers again to pay attention to the man taking the measurements.

Upon closer inspection he realizes that the man must be younger than he’d originally thought. His face has sprawling laugh lines and freckles. His eyes are focused on nothing but the tape measure and the small leather bound notebook he’s taking the notes down in. They’re blue-ish grey and Ressler wonders if he’s ever looked at anyone this closely.

_Reddington maybe._

After about ten minutes he starts to get restless and notices that Reddington is gone. He takes the opportunity to try and talk with Agostino.

“Da quanto lo conosci?”

How long have you known him?

“Quattordici anni”

Fourteen years

Ressler almost gapes at him. He can’t imagine, but then he thinks about all the time he’s been hunting him and now how long with the task force.

“ti fidi di lui?”

Do you trust him?

“Con la mia vita.” He makes a gesture as if to say all around but the translation is lost on him.

_The air he breathes? Maybe Reddington already saved his life. I know he saved mine._

“Con la tua vita.” He mutters mostly to himself. But now Reddington is back, with drinks in his arms. None are of the alcohol variety, but Donald still isn’t surprised Reddington showed up with them. Always seems well hydrated.

Their conversation has been cut short though and Agostino has fully immersed himself in the work again. So he strikes a conversation with Red. He tells himself it’s just boredom but part him knows it’s a lie.

_He’s certainly interesting. He’s also very good at conversation. That’s not it is it though Donnie?_


	3. Chapter 3

The suit came in at least by the end of the day. Not so surprising, but the quality throws him, the suit is obviously very very expensive to begin with. It’s the hand stitching that gets him, though. It’s straight concise stitching all through, the name Agostino embroidered under the collar.

Reddington makes him try it on three separate time just to make sure it fits. “Well Donald, you can’t be too careful, or careless.” He runs his hand under the collar and down through to the buttons. Which only serves to make Donald shiver, giving Red a satisfactory smile.

There’s not much to do after that and he dresses in his old clothes and returns to the post office. Aram corners Reddington before Ressler even gets a chance to say hello.

_Or explain yourself, maybe. You know he’s curious._

Ressler huffs and realizes that he’s only slightly sore now. He’s forgotten about his injury almost completely. There’s nothing he wants to do less than go back to paperwork, but he’s needs to forget the soreness again and it seems like his only option. Before he can even sit at his desk though he’s called into Coopers office.

“Have a seat Agent Ressler.” He gestures toward the seat in front of him. “What would this be about sir?” Cooper sighs heavily before taking his glasses off. “We’ve run into a problem, it seems.” Ressler’s eyebrow arches. “Yes?” Cooper opens a file. “The art thief we’ve been sent at by Reddington has heavy connections to an Italian designer drug ring but ironically they don’t speak the language, they sell uppers as well as specialty ecstasy. Reddington seems to have thought ahead. Whether you were in on it though I don’t know, but.” Ressler’s frustration and confusion increases. “This.” Cooper brings out surveillance photos. They slap down on the table and Ressler wants to vomit. The photos are surveillance photos from his building and the hospital. A kiss on the cheek and a held hand in a hospital; as well as a photo of the blood transfer order. “Yes. I was.” It’s a lie and it makes him queasy but it’s better than admitting that he was being manipulated. “Reddington believed that he could draw them out. He said though that the less I knew the better.” Cooper nods. Face unreadable. “Aram has been manipulating files and records as they do background checks on you.” He opens a drawer. “And apparently Reddington has been intercepting your mail before they can steal it and check it.” He’s not all that surprised.

_So, he did have an ulterior motive._

Ressler takes the rubber banded mail and leaves the office. He finds himself being more disappointed than angry. He goes stone-faced before heading to Aram’s workstation. Aram looks grateful to have him there. “Donald Damereu is a freelance military specialist, working partly for Halcyon Aegis. He has had moderate success in the arms scene but he is a ghost, no one has ever seen him. Except for wait for it.” He drums lightly on the table, glancing from Donald to Red. “No one okay, Raymond Reddington. The only person he trusts. He doesn’t even work directly with Scottie Hargrave.” Donald’s eyebrow furrows. “How did you pull this together so fast?” Reddington shrugs. “I’ve been floating Mr. Damereu for at least five years. No first name just whenever I had a cache of weapons that needed to be sold I suggested that we’d been working together.” He waves toward Aram. “Aram here however has been altering all heresay records to involve your pictures, surveillance, police photos, you name it. Oh and several doctored investigation reports involving high power machinery.” He doesn’t know whether to clap him on the back or slap him in the face.

“As long as it works.”

A lull in the conversation and Aram is shifting back and forth on his heels.

“So, Mr. Reddington.” Eyes are on him now. “You aren’t going to… kill any of us right? That’s not…”

Reddington stares at him for a moment before clapping his hand on Aram’s shoulder and laughing loudly clutching another hand to his chest. “Oh no what gives you that dreadful idea.” He chuckles. “I would have to have a valid reason. Like oh say draining sixty million from my bank account and holding it over my head.” He hums, amused and Aram has nearly swallowed his tongue. “I’m kidding Aram. You got your girl; I got my money. Seems to have worked itself through.” A forced chuckle from Aram. “Now. Let’s get to work. Shall we?”

Some time later they’re in the office alone going over the plan for the next day.

“Were you planning this the whole time? An ulterior motive for breakfast and lunch?” Reddington’s face betrays nothing. “No. I was robbed. Several hours after leaving your place. Several paintings and a good bit of money.”

_He’s lying._

_**Can you even really tell though?**_

**** _No. but it’s easier that way._

More silence as Reddington pores over blueprints and maps.

Ten minutes go.

“What does innamorare mean?” Reddington crows lightly at that.

He finally sets the papers down and sits. '

“Why?”

Ressler shrugs and lies. “I saw it somewhere. Been stuck in my head, like the word Nova Scotia. Not sure what it means though.” Reddington hums.

“It loosely translates to ‘to fall in love’ or ‘to make fall in love’ It’s Italian, like most things today."

The translation slaps him across the face and he tries to seem impartial.

“Cool. I guess.” His hands are shaking all of a sudden and Reddington’s face seems to melt. “Have you taken those vitamins? Of course you haven’t.” He paws through Elizabeth’s desk and pulls out a women’s multivitamin and a Gatorade like supplemental drink. “Nothing worse than someone that refuses to admit they’re sick or hurt.” He guffaws at that. “Says the man that paraded around town poisoned, trying to get revenge.” Reddington nods. “Touche.” Secretly he’s glad Reddington thinks the shaking is residual trauma from the injury. Truth is, he had taken the vitamins and had been staying hydrated. He’d even stayed away from painkillers; As hard as that was.

“Hmmm. Whatever.” The long silence only broken up by the sound of the bottle crinkling.

When he gets home, he barely makes it to the bed before sleep takes him, shirt unbuttoned but not off and pants still on.

He wakes up late the next day to find that his alarm clock is unplugged and before he can even wonder about it he turns to see Reddington sitting in a chair on the other side of the room reading a book from his shelf. “Surprisingly robust collection for someone with so little time to himself.” Ressler glares but then realizes it’s not exactly an insult. He shoves his face into the pillow and groans. “It’s..” He glances at his watch. “3:49, we need to start getting ready. We have three hours.”

Ressler groans again.

“A.M? Why would you wake me up?” Reddington looks down at him with an odd look. “P.M. Donald.” That statement startles him out of bed and he falls out of the bed onto the floor.

“Why would you let me sleep so long?”

“You needed rest to heal.” He opens the mans shirt and glances at the bruises scattering his ribs. Yellowing and greenish they’d healed faster than he’d thought. “Looking better.”

_Yeah, I wish I could say no thanks to you but I can’t._

**_His blood flowing freely in your veins._ **

“We have a visit with a friend. Introduce yourself as Donald Damereu”

Turns out the visit with a friend is a lunch; and not with a friend either, he realizes. The man across from the table seems familiar but he can’t place it. He just knows that Reddington wishes he could be anywhere else. The man is frighteningly thin and wipes everything down with a wipe before he uses it.

“Donald meet the Cleaner. Vice versa” The man’s clumpy eyebrow form an angry glare. “Well, Reddington you know I hate that name.” He realizes where he knows him from. The case files, a footnote on page 43 in the original. He helped Reddington clean up a mess in Chisinau.

_Allegedly._

The man shakes Reddington’s hand before leaning over and wiping it liberally with a wipe. He puts both hands within reach and gestures for Donald to do the same. After they’ve been wiped The Cleaner pulls out a scanner. “Can never be too careful. Every time. You know protocol.”

Reddington puts his thumb on the scanner and shortly thereafter Donald does the same. He sweats a bit but trusts Aram to cover his back.

_And Reddington._

Once they’re cleared the details are released in a packet and The Cleaner excuses himself.

“So we’re not eating?” He says when The Cleaner is out of earshot. Reddington mouths ‘Bugged’ at him and replies as if nothing had happened. “No not here today. We can go to your place though and I can cook.” He picks up a napkin and shoves it into Donald’s front top jacket pocket.

‘He bugged your jacket. Keep to simple convo mention nothing.’

_When had he written it?_

In the car Reddington carries on like normal but Donald is afraid to open his mouth lest he say something privileged. “I’m cooking again, Darling.”

“Hmm and what would you be cooking?” He tries to keep his voice level.

Raymond hums as if in thought.

“I’m thinking more pasta. Would you be averse to that?” He seems to have a fondness in his voice. 

_I must be imagining it._

Ressler isn’t really feeling it.

“Maybe something else. We just had pasta.”

“Ohh, I have it then. Arancini. A dish of stuffed rice balls. The rice balls are fried after being coated in a dusting of toasted breadcrumbs.”

Suddenly he can’t wait for dinner and his stomach betrays him by loudly making its presence known. “Arancini it is then.”

Reddington pulls a pen out and writes on his hand.

_**Can’t go to Post Office anytime soon** _

Ressler gives him a ‘No duh’ look.

* * *

When they get to the apartment, they run into Mrs. Hagermeyer.

“Oh darling Christine. Could you be a dear and wash this with your dark loads? My poor Donald spilled some kind of pasta sauce on it, and it would be dreadful for it to stain.”

Donald rolls his eyes and Mrs. Hagermeyer giggles at them. “Of course dearie. Treat him well Raymond.” And then quietly.. “The good lord knows he needs it.” Reddington nods heavily, agreeing with her. “He does, poor man.” Donald can’t handle it and unlocks his apartment before heading in; Not bothering to wait for Raymond.

_When did I start referring to him as Raymond._

_**Too late now. Donald Dearie.**_

Reddington is uncharacteristically silent throughout cooking the meal and only pipes up when a small device trills three times. “No bugs here.” Ressler nods shortly.

“Who said that word to you? Innamorare? I know you didn’t see it anywhere. Could be I’m just paranoid though.” 

_You would have reason for being paranoid though, Raymond._

He curses his brain and doesn’t say it out loud.

“You’re right.” He says it around a bite of the rice. “It was Dembe. I returned that lunch bag and he said that and I..”

“You were curious.” 

Ressler just nods.

“As you should have been, I guess.”

_Why is he asking? What is the implication?_

An hour later and Donald has the suit on and is being ushered into a private car. The man already in the car holds extends a drink out towards him. He tries not to seem to wary of it. “It’ll knock you out Donnie. Don’t worry. They want to keep their secrets, secret.”

He waits for Raymond to kick back his glass before he does it himself. “Nighty night darling.” Even in his noncoherent state he keeps up appearances.

_Oh, but don’t you wish it were real?_

_**Off to see the wizard. He might give him a heart and me a brain.**_

He lulls off and feels the glass fall from his hand, he vaguely registers that his head is on Raymond’s shoulder. He finds he doesn’t mind it much.

He opens his eyes groggily and looks around to see that he’s sitting on a Chesterfield with a leather finish and wooden buttons.

Again, he finds himself sitting, possibly too close, to one Raymond Reddington.

_Could he ever get too close though?_

_**Would you even mind now?**_

_No. I don’t think so, and I hate it._

The party seems about the same as every other party that Red had dragged them to until he’s ushered downstairs and his thumb is scanned.

“Where are we going Reddington?”

“Hmm, down below, love. You really need to start calling me Raymond.” He knows it’s a show but part of him pangs at the thought of it.

“Okay. Raymond.” It feels foreign on his tongue.

Once the lock clicks and opens he’s led by the arm into a dark room filled with photos hanging from the ceiling. Even after entering the room fully he doesn’t let go of his arm, in fact he probably holds on tighter once The Broker enters the room.

“Raymond Reddington. A legend in the flesh.” He turns slightly to regard Donald. “Oh make that two. Donald Damereu. I’ve seen your..” He pauses and Donald nearly flinches. “Body of work. Absolutely terrifying. You supply half the eastern seaboard and for good measure kill anyone that get's in your way.” The man shudders as if turned on, closing his eyes and pitching his head up toward the ceiling.

“Unfortunately for you, though. Business can only be conducted with Mr. Reddington. So, I’ll have to ask you to wait here.” He smiles at him and Donald wants to vomit. He's all crooked yellow teeth.

Reddington clears the door and before he can even turn around, something has cracked over his head.

**_Maybe he will be the death of me._ **

_Shut up._

He awoke to the sound of laughter, cruel laughter and a gun clicking. He can’t move he realizes. He’s tied to the chair and somethings trickling down his face and into his mouth.

**_It’s blood._ **

It’s bitter and vile and he wants to throw up. He can see Raymond sitting in a chair across from him, not chained. Like it makes much difference, they’ll shoot him if he moves.

“You see we figured out who you really are to him. It’s no wonder to us now why you were so well hidden.” Another laugh mired in cruelty. “You’re his pet.” Raymond nearly growls. “Sorry is that not it? Oh maybe it’s more than that. Hmm Reddington’s whatever then. Listen. Here’s the deal. We’re cutting you out of the deal, we’re taking the money and the drugs and we’re going to kill your pet. Got it?” Raymond ignores them

“Andra tutto bene. Ne usciremo vivi.”

It’s all going to be okay. We’re going to get out of this alive.

“Speak in English, you fuck.” Raymond looks at them with contempt.

Raymond speaks up. It’s authoritative, so much so that Donald almost believes him.

“I was telling my associate here that I’m done with him. That if you kill him, I’ll consider it part of doing business.” Reddington's voice is level.

Donald laughs lowly and it earns him another blow to the head. Raymond’s face doesn’t change, and he stands up. They must believe him because they lower their weapons slightly. It’s a bad move and he pulls his gun and shoots several of them in the arms. They try to grab at the weapons but Reddington lets off a warning shot into the floor less than an inch away from the man’s family jewels before going to untie Ressler.

“So maybe you don’t know anything about me. Firstly. I would never leave someone behind. Not unless they betrayed me, as it seems you have.” He glances down at the bleeding man before firing a shot between his eyes.

“Come now Donnie. We’ll get you fixed up. Again.” Reddington's not even trying to hide the fact that he's worried. 

All danger seemingly out of the way, he blacks out.

He comes to in a hospital room but the doctors hovering over him seem familiar. “It’s not so good that we’re seeing each other again, Mr. Ressler.” He realizes quickly that they’re the same doctors and nurses as the “Code 77” that he had previously. “Minor bruising and luckily not internally this time. You have a concussion, so we are keeping you for observation. Your Reddington ordered blood tests are clean though so you don’t have much to worry about.” He isn’t surprised that Raymond would order the tests but he’s glad, partly.

_He might be a criminal but he’s the only one to look beneath the surface in a long time._

**_Grateful for that._**

They let Red in to see him. Not really like they could stop him anyways. He’s carrying a book with him and Donald realizes it’s the book Red was reading from his apartment. The Cosmic Connection by Carl Sagan. He wonders briefly why the man picked it but before he can ask the question is answered for him. “Always been fascinated by the stars. They always lead us home. If we know how to interpret them.”

He flips to a chapter page and starts reading. The deeper, familiar voice is enough to make him lull off to sleep and forget (momentarily, of course.) his troubles.

He knows that Reddington won’t abandon him, and by extension the rest of the task force.

****

**_He’s shown now that it’s not just his freedom he cares about._ **


End file.
